


The Making of a Champion

by Toshi_Nama



Series: Broken [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Complete, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:25:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toshi_Nama/pseuds/Toshi_Nama
Summary: Sometimes, a Champion is what you see.  Sometimes, it's what you want to see.  Once, a Champion was what others forced her to be.The truth rarely ends happily for unwilling heroes, no matter what the Tales say.**WARNING**The tags I included are accurate.  This work *does* deal with severe depression and emotional abuse.  It does *not* get happier.  If you have to quit reading, please do.  It's a very personal story, and I think there's real value in digging into what that actually *means,* and why/how people don't respond 'correctly' around those sorts of relationships.





	1. A Character With Promise

_ Sabah stared. Lirene had wanted this man protected, this healer. She’d watched him bring a boy to life, and then turn around to fiercely defend him. Father was like that. Even Bethany’s faint shudder didn’t stop her examination of the Warden they’d come to find. Tall, lanky with either insufficiency or nerves; honey-blonde hair, aqua eyes...he was beautiful. But beauty wouldn’t take care of her sister or her mother - or feed her, though she’d gone without often enough. “We...need maps.” _

_ “Karl, no…” the whisper had been forced from those flexible lips as the man, brand still fresh across his forehead, begged for death. _

_ “Please. Don’t leave me like this.” _

_ Anders, face frozen, had held the knife even as Karl’s eyes died, then stabbed. A healer, her Father said once, knows how to make sure an end is merciful. It didn’t take long. “I need to be alone,” he ground past his pain, then left the Chantry. _

The conversation rang, even after she crept back into his clinic. The lantern was unlit, but one door was ajar. Anders was staring at nothing, even if his eyes faced the neat racks of herbs and table with bandages, mortar and pestle, and the other more ‘standard’ tools of a healer’s trade. “Anders…”

“Yes, I know what I am. An ‘abomination,’ I suppose.” His voice was dead. She knew that voice. She’d heard it often enough coming from her own lips on the voyage from Gwaren, until she’d found the strength Father always relied on.  _ ‘You have to keep them safe, dove.’  _ The words still rang in her mind, even if she didn’t burden Mother or Bethany with them, now that she’d found that control. “His name was Justice. He was a friend. Here - the maps are here.”

The heat of his pain drew her. “Anders, it’s ok. I didn’t come to judge. I…” her fool mouth betrayed her, “he made a good choice.”

“What?” At least the detuned shock was an emotion, before he shut down again. “No.” The fingers of his left hand twitched. “No, you don’t want that. All I can do is hurt you.”

How? “No, you wouldn’t.” How could he hurt her, when he hurt so much himself? “You’re a healer, Anders.”

He turned enough to caress her face, his own grief-stricken and marred by teartracks. Even crying, he was beautiful. “Two years ago,” he sighed, “even one...maybe. But now as I am? It’s impossible.”

It wasn’t. She’d prove to him it wasn’t. Besides, she didn’t miss how his eyes lingered, the sensation as unfamiliar as the fancier armor Aethenril had given them after their time in her band. “Hawke…”

“Sabah.”

His lips softened for a moment. “You don’t know me.”

She intended to.

**

“You’re a decent hand at this.”

Sabah smiled over at him, despite the rankness in the air. The gas was especially strong today; part of why so many had come in. “I used to help Father,” she explained. “Bethany, too.” Mixing herbs had been pleasant as well as a way to buy favor with townsfolk suspicious of those they hadn’t known for generations. “I like helping people.”

He didn’t quite smile, but his lips still softened. She’d already started living for those, and almost purred as his eyes caressed her. “Beautiful,” he said. “Those should be about ready.”

It felt so  _ good  _ to do something that would help people. Sure, she needed the other odd jobs to feed Mother and Bethany and do something to pay Gamlen back, but this - the smiles or whispered ‘thank you’s, the three hugs from little ones who could run again - it was a balm of its own.

Anders’ fingers brushed her own as he took the bowl. She hadn’t flirted, spent the few stolen hours she could here, but was already three quarters in love.  _ If only he’d believe in himself.  _

How could a healer hurt someone? Anders  _ lived  _ to make things better for people.

_ ** _

_ ‘Even deeper underground than any sane person should be, her eyes were sparkling sapphires. “We’ll get out, Varric, one way or another.” The dwarf didn’t believe her; what could she know about being locked in a tomb?  _

_ The words struck home in the Warden, though. His eyes caught the same fire and he smiled. The elf stopped drooping and that meant they all followed her. She was…’ something. Sod it all, Varric, put in better words. It shouldn’t be so hard to write out - not the betrayal, but getting out. It wasn’t just writing, it was  _ advertising.  _ He’d already gotten parts out, but then he had to get ambitious. _

_ He glanced around the Hanged Man, then read the broadsheet he’d paid an urchin to snatch from the Chantry Board every evening. Easier to get his news that way, after it had been digested by half of Kirkwall. _

_ “I’ll be sunfried,” he murmured to himself, not even noticing he’d used his mother’s favorite curse.  _

_ ‘The Amell Estate and place in Kirkwall’s Council of Nobles has been restored to one Leandra Amell. Recognized heirs include brother Gamlen Amell and daughter Sabah Hawke-Amell.’  _

_ “She did it. She actually did it.” _

_ He grabbed another page and started scribbling. Maybe it had been more than luck and pity. It’d turned out to be damned  _ good  _ luck, but...there was something about her. He could always smell a story. Beautiful, blades, determined and a hint of fragility? Perfect. Exiled refugee who reclaimed her birthright?  _ He  _ couldn’t come up with a hook like that. _

**

She’d fled. Not from the estate, but from the emptiness. The echoing spaces of someone else’s dreams. Mother’s voice chased her through Hightown, all the way to the Hanged man.  _ ‘If only Bethany and Carver could have seen…’ _

If only.

If only she’d found a way to stop Carver from charging that ogre; if only she hadn’t listened to Mother when she begged Bethany not to accompany them to the Deep Roads. Bethany wasn’t dead at least, even if Anders’ stories of Circle life sickened her with their cruelty and despair. Still, she should have found a way to save her from the Templars and the city that had driven her little sister to whimpering nightmares so many times. She was alive. But it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

She swung around and pulled her dagger on instinct. Her strike toward the figure she felt more than saw was stopped by another hand around her wrist and deflected to scrape along a dark chest guard. “Sabah.” The voice didn’t fit Lowtown, even if the smell had already changed from orange blossom to stale beer and sweat.

“Fenris!” Her voice twisted from the stress and shuddering fear, coming out in a gasp around the tears she’d swallowed the entire way. She’d almost killed  _ him,  _ too. “I didn’t…”

He let go of her wrist to catch the dagger as it dropped from her nerveless hand. “I noticed.” The low voice stayed as dry as always. “It’s Wicked Grace tonight – you decided to join in?”

An excuse. A reason, and one that wouldn’t draw questions. She nodded quickly, avoiding his too-perceptive gaze. Instead, she kept her own focused where the elf’s dark skin and mage-branded tattoos vanished under his ever-present armor. “I didn’t think I’d be able to get away, but everything’s moved in.”

In a smooth motion he re-sheathed her dagger so it hung ready for an underhand draw, the hilt resting against her floating ribs. “You’re quick. It’s a good thing we train so often.”

They didn’t train often enough - but that was her doing. He’d suggested – even asked for sessions two or three times a week; she managed to get over to his estate and the rough pells he’d set up in the main ballroom less than weekly. Mother, the estate, and pleasing the nobles enough for them to relent and give the empty hulk back to her had eaten her time, bite by bite. When that was settled, she still had to find laborers, stone masons, weavers, drapers: everything and every _ one  _ needed to restore it to the state Mother insisted was the bare minimum before she could move in. 

Mother wasn’t the only one who needed her, either. Sabah joined Merrill fitfully for nervous tea, fixing up the place, making sure she had food without making her feel helpless. Then there were what afternoons she could sneak free helping Lirene and the other refugees. All of that, as well as one other...

The one who made her heart race, who was as Fereldan as she. 

_ Anders…  _

He’d thrown himself back into his clinic when they’d returned. Even as he muttered about the Deep Roads, she still longed for him- the glances, the whispers, the soft voice and hot eyes. She couldn’t blame him for the sudden periods of coldness when he turned away and drove her off with his accusing bitterness. Her suggestion had almost killed them all.

Fenris sighed at the silence and turned back toward the familiar path to the Hanged man, tucking her hand into his elbow. “Varric will be glad to see you.”

Ah, Varric. Another person she’d failed – no matter how he insisted that he’d failed her. He had apologized so often she hid for a month and a half; she ventured into Lowtown only when necessary and never into the Hanged Man – Varric’s ‘office.’ And then, he’d paid her the blood money she’d sacrificed her sister’s freedom for all unknowing. If it hadn’t been for the estate, for Mother’s dream, the only dream she could bring to life…

If only.

By the time Fenris opened the door and ushered her in, the sudden emptiness where his warmth had been was shocking. She’d gotten her composure, though, and stepped into a fairly quiet night. Two drunks, Isabela tossing dice with a man who couldn’t get his eyes above her bodice, the start of a brawl stopped by an off-duty Guard not interested in having her drinking interrupted.

Varric’s voice rang through the tavern. “Hawke!” It took her mind from that sudden emptiness, something she shouldn’t have an issue with, shouldn’t even  _ notice.  _ Fenris wasn’t interested, and neither was she. Instead, she smiled brightly and waved, making her way to the corner table he’d claimed. “It’s been ages!”

Her voice was husky but relaxed – relaxed enough to settle his sharp eyes. “Busy with the estate, but we finished moving in.”

Tonight it was Varric, Isabela, Fenris and her. Anders had his clinic, and Merrill didn’t like all the people. Aveline must have had inspections or whatever other duties kept her busy these days, so it was just them. After the third time Isabela ‘accidentally’ ran her hand along Fenris’ leg, Sabah didn’t comment when he slid his chair closer to her – or when after a particularly suggestive comment, he fidgeted then stood.

“Sabah.”

She looked up, startled.

He held out his hand. “This song can be danced to. Do you know the steps? I can teach them.”

Isabela’s pout decided for her. Unfamiliar, impotent frustration gave her the courage to ignore Varric’s snicker at the sultry Rivaini. Instead, she let Fenris pull her to her feet and position her hands, murmuring instructions. It was nice. She’d trained just enough at his claimed mansion that she managed to follow Fenris’ lead more often than not. “Not bad,” he smiled, spinning her briefly.

Her spine eased, the muscles in her back letting go as she relaxed the way Fenris recommended. He was right; it did make it easier to follow both the melody and his lead as he navigated the tables and puddles of spilled beer across the floor’s weathered planks.

Unfortunately, that meant she relaxed enough to actually listen to the minstrel.

_‘It's the beat my heart skips when I'm with you_ _But I still don't understand_ _Just how your love can do what no one else can’_

She stumbled. His arms caught her, pulled her against him rather than letting her fall…leaving her to stare into his jade eyes only inches away.

“Sabah,” he husked.

No. She wouldn’t curse him, too. When she pulled away, he let her go. “Maybe I’m just not a dancer.”

It was still a lonely night, as she stumbled out of the Hanged Man rather than deal with her friends. They were friends, right? Of course. Friends. No matter how she tried, she had so few. So little around her. She looked up the stairs toward Hightown and the empty estate. Mother; the ghost of Carver; the memory of Bethany. They all stared accusingly in her mind. No, she couldn’t do it, not now. She wasn’t strong enough to face the family she’d failed. Her feet turned her the other way, toward the docks and the twisting staircases that let her into the next level of the city. 

Darktown. Would Anders still be working so late?

If only.

**

Servants, even in Lady Amell’s house, weren’t seen any more than they were in other houses. Orana heard it all from the other room.

“Is it because of the brands?”

“What? NO! Fenris..” a pause, “he  _ NEEDS _ me, don’t you see? He loves me enough that  _ I _ can reach him, even through the rage.”

“He’s using you, Hawke.” A long pause, then a sigh. “Just…remember you have friends.”

He stalked into the library, his mouth twisted. She ached for him - so much had happened, and she understood more now that she was free, too. He brooded in a chair, watching the fire. She almost spoke, but saw the slight twitch of his head, something only a slave would see…a request for solitude too subtle for a Magister to notice. Her lute was already tuned…she started playing, so softly it merged with the crackling logs. Slaves didn’t need words to communicate. “Thank you, Orana.” His voice sent pleasant shivers down her spine.

For a moment Fenris brooded at the open door, then sighed.


	2. Divergence

__ _ ‘As the years passed, the tension didn’t. The Qunari ship didn’t come. The Viscount was trapped between the nobles on one side, and the Chantry and Knight-Commander on the other. His attempts to keep the peace were doomed, though he tried. He bribed and promised, and as for the Qunari? He leaned on the woman who’d helped rescue his son. She wasn’t part of Hightown’s swamp, not even after he’d restored her name. No, she was safe. _

__ _ It was a valiant effort. _

__ _ All the while, other tensions kept rising. There was nowhere that a sane person could go where she wasn’t pulled between two sides, both heedless of what they demanded. The same was true of Sabah Hawke. A Warden and a slave, a Dalish as exiled as she was and a dwarf tag-along, the fellow refugee who’d taken on the impossibility of reforming Kirkwall’s mangy curs into an actual city guard… _

__ _ If they couldn’t solve things, who could? _

__ _ “Just ask Hawke. She’s got connections.” The refrain rang in the corners of the Hanged Man and salons of the powerful alike. Even the Gallows knew her name. Hawke. Even as her mother reclaimed her childhood home and childhood name, her daughter held to her own. Hawke. Maybe that’s how she flew above the rest. It didn’t matter; the refugees loved her, the Viscount respected her, and the Guard looked the other way when they had to. _

__ _ In a matter of years, Sabah Hawke had become the one person who could get things done. More, she could get things done and stay clean. Her mother was from Kirkwall, but she was Ferelden through and through.’ _

__ _ He sighed, staring at the page. “It’s so obvious I could puke. Shit.” He glared at it but the words stubbornly refused to match the epic building in his head. “Well, we’ll see.” He turned the page over, revealing a virgin sheet, and dipped his quill. _

** “I just don’t like it.” His voice pouted, then sharpened. “I don’t like how he looks at you – and he hates mages. Your sister is a mage, Sabah. He’s just using you to find _her_ weaknesses - to support the Templars and lock the rest of us away!”

She knew that wasn’t it; she  _ knew _ Fenris wanted her to stay sharp and strong if only to help him take out the Tevinters who sold people. “Anders, he’s trying to kill slavers. You know, the people who have been capturing other Fereldans to sell? I thought you said it’s just like what Templars do to the mages. He wants to make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone.” She kept her response quiet but didn’t hide the passion. Surely he could see past their mutual dislike. They fought the same kinds of people. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t relent.

“Sabah, I thought you loved me, I thought you understood. Mages aren’t even people to him – how can you compare what mages go through to what slaves see?” His voice was soft, pleading – begging her to understand what he’d gone through, his greater experience. “Slaves can escape, and can be free once they do! Mages are hunted forever, always with a death sentence. Thanks to the Chantry, no one will shelter us. Look around you!”

“I…of course I love you, Anders, you know that.” She didn’t glance up; the squalor of Dark Town was familiar, as was the clean-smelling refuge of his clinic. Even here, the gasses from below still choked if you picked something off the floor on a bad day.

“Then why are you spending so much time with someone who would be happier if I was Tranquil?” His voice was harsh, cutting. It was only because he was angry...only because he’d seen it happen to Karl and couldn’t face that pain and fear. She  _ knew _ it. It was his trauma striking out, not him. Never him. He loved her.

A sigh crept out as she surrendered the argument. “Maybe you’re right.” It wasn’t worth the fight when Anders felt so strongly about something. Fenris wouldn’t mind: he trained with Aveline, and sometimes even some of the Templars. He said it was because they had the martial training, especially with what Cullen was doing. She’d believed him. But...maybe Anders was right, maybe Fenris was training with the Templars for another reason.

Besides, she didn’t want to argue. It was a subject Anders knew better, he had lived it. What right did  _ she  _ have to say otherwise? She could remember how his voice shook when he’d realized he could risk love. She couldn’t,  _ wouldn’t  _ give him any reason to doubt hers.

**

_ ‘The gangs learned to fear her, and the streets were safe. Well, as safe as anything in the City of Chains. If only things were so easy elsewhere. Her dealings with the Dalish didn’t stop - she couldn’t send a mage to the Circle and support the Underground. She didn’t. The Clan that had exiled a mage needed one now; bitter irony for the woman who saw her place taken by someone who, though he’d been birthed by an elf, was human.  _

__ _ Sabah Hawke had become a living legend among her countrymen; a noble and the one who pushed an Orlesian to treating his workers fairly. She’d even managed to convince him to give her part-ownership. An Orlesian had given in to a Fereldan, and without bloodshed. The guardian of the refugees, Sabah Hawke had also become a light to the mages wanting nothing to do with the Gallows and its Knight-Commander. It didn’t help the tensions, but what could even the Knight-Commander do? Her lover may be a mage, but he was also a Warden: immune from Chantry law. _

__ _ Helpless rage didn’t suit the Knight-Commander any more than it suited the Arishok. The only one that looked good in it, unfortunately, were the First Enchanter and the Viscount. The water wasn’t boiling by Wintersend, but it was starting to scald.’ _

**

Sabah looked around the nearly-empty estate, the three of them swallowed by the enormous dining room and formal dishes Bodhan and Orana kept shuttling in. She  _ should  _ be happy. She  _ was  _ happy. Mother in her childhood home, a lover who was actually sitting next to her and exchanging small talk about his clinic with Mother – what wasn’t to be happy about? The food was amazing. Bethy was safe from the Templars, in a way, and seemed happy in the Circle from the only letter she’d sent to Gamlen; thriving, even.

When Anders put his hand on her knee, she gave him a bright smile as she toyed with her fork. “Happy Wintersend.”

_ Happy. _

Sabah remembered happy – a sweeter, almost childish happiness. It was in some almost unnamed hamlet in South Reach, surrounded by rye and sheep and the biggest blackberry bushes she’d ever seen. Carver and Bethany were nine, then – her gift hadn’t shown, they hadn’t had to move as often yet, and Mother had traded a blanket for preserves enough to see them through the snow. Father had given her her first real dagger.  _ ‘You’re growing up, dove.’ _ Carver had pouted until he opened his gift – a sword carved from pine, but she’d helped Father and painted it until it gleamed.

There had been laughter and a sigh of relief when Bethany’s gift was warmer socks – her feet had always gotten cold, then. Not after her magic showed, but before everything had changed…

The tension was still there, an uneasiness like a storm just on the edge of the moor, but Mother and Father laughed and she didn’t need to worry about it yet, didn’t need to help make the peace or find a way to stretch their coppers further or make sure Bethany hadn’t stayed too long at the Chantry. She’d baked the pie – nothing like the rich chocolate Bodhan had spent the day keeping Anders’ cats away from, but the pumpkin had tasted good where she hadn’t burned it. Everyone had an extra piece, even Mother, and said it was the finest thing she’d tasted.

“Sabah?” His hand moved to her face, and for a moment she came back to see real concern in his sea-blue eyes. “Where did you go?”

She shook her head. “Long ago and far away,” she murmured with another smile, drug up from memory. “It doesn’t matter now.”  _ She should be happy. She would be happy. _

**

Sabah tried to not stare as her mind raced. Feynriel. She’d saved him, found a way for him to be with the Dalish rather than trapped at the Circle, and what had that gotten him? Nightmares he couldn’t recover from. The old Keeper watched  _ her, _ not her former apprentice.

“Is there anything I can do?” She didn’t want to ask, but Feynriel was in this position because of her actions. She’d listened to Anders and Merrill rather than...well, it was so unusual for the two to agree on anything it  _ had  _ to be the right choice.

Most of the explanation didn’t make sense, but some did. The Keeper wanted to send them into the Fade; worse, into the boy’s mind. Her own raced. She didn’t want to, but what choice did she have? “I will.”

“I can send more than one, depending on who you wish to join you. Consider carefully.”

She nodded, and stared at her companions. “It will be easiest to take a mage with,” Merrill contributed, her bright voice still sour at what Marethari had offered. “They are more in tune with the Fade. It’s how the ritual works.”

“You can’t think of trusting her, can you?” Anders’ voice was unstrung. “She’s a  _ blood mage,  _ Sabah,  _ and  _ already bitter. You know better.”

There were so many eyes on her. What did  _ she  _ know about magic? “Both of you,” she said. It was enough to ease the edge of Anders’ temper. That was good. Besides, he wouldn’t let anything bad happen. She had to believe that.

He wasn’t the only one she had to consider, though - especially with the Fade involved. Her eyes roamed the simple shack - Marethari had brought Feynriel back here in the hopes it would help, but...what this room in the Alienage would do, Sabah couldn’t understand.  _ Of course  _ she couldn’t. When had she ever lived anywhere long enough for it to be a home? It was part of why she couldn’t get upset at Mother or any of the others.

She swallowed, knowing what her next words would mean. There were only a few people she  _ knew  _ would never hurt her. Anders, Varric, and… “Fenris, too.”

“Very well.” Marethari’s words interrupted the outrage about to spill from Anders - Sabah winced. She’d have to make it up to him after. Surely he could understand. The one thing the two of them agreed on was how dangerous Merrill was, even if  _ she  _ didn’t see it.

It would work. He had to see it. Then magic wrapped around the three of them and made any arguments or reconsideration moot.

**

_ “It has been so long.” _

Sabah quit investigating the warped building around them to look to Anders. Ice ran down her spine at the voice...and she was right. There was no aquamarine in his eyes, only ice. Black smoke wisped around him.

“Anders?”

Her hope died.  _ “Anders is not here. It is only I. Come. We must find Feynriel.” _

She didn’t have Anders and Fenris to help...now all she had was Fenris and her own private reliance on Merrill’s - not sense, but good nature. When asked, the former First wanted to help those in need. Would it be enough?

Justice led the way as Sabah closed her eyes, almost forgotten as she followed the others’ footsteps. Had she just doomed Anders? What had she done? A wild, forlorn hope sprung up. Maybe Justice wouldn’t be able to return. Maybe Anders - and she - would be free of the spirit’s harsh implacability.

_ If only.  _

**

_ If only  _ felt a lot less likely as Sabah watched Fenris extract his blade from Merrill’s heart. Her good nature had fallen to temptation. When asked to choose between new friends and the knowledge stolen Ages ago from her people, she’d chosen the very ones who’d driven her out. 

_ “Thus it is for mages who succumb to demons.”  _

She avoided Fenris’ eyes and their implication. Justice stalked further, leaving her to mourn for a friend and try not to think about what came next. Poor Feynriel. His dreams, his hopes...he was a butterfly battering himself against the glass of the demon who held him captive. She  _ would  _ see him freed. It was the least she could do for him, for Anders...for the memory of Merrill.

_ Butterflies in glass jars… _

She’d only seen it once. When she’d found the little girl and asked why, the answer was simple: ‘Because I wanted to keep it. It kept flying away.’ Sabah had opened the jar, but it was too late, the wings were too battered. Dust coated the glass, and she watched as it stopped trying to fly. No. No, she wouldn’t let that happen here. “Feynriel, listen! You know what your father had done.”

Doubt filled the boy’s eyes. “This is all wrong!” He’d run.

This demon, robbed of its prey, failed to tempt anyone; how could it? Fenris hated magic and spirits while Justice  _ was  _ one. As for her...she was happy. She  _ was.  _ She had revived her mother’s dream, she had a lover who cared for the needy as much as she did, she had friends. There was nothing for a demon to latch onto. Plus, she was no mage. “Feynriel!”

_ “He is gone further. There are not many left, and then he will be free.” _

“How different is this from what you are?” Justice froze at Fenris’ pointed question. So did she, begging that it would not set off the thing’s temper. Justice. She would  _ believe  _ it was Justice, not Vengeance. Justice shouldn’t  _ have  _ a temper.

It started walking Anders’ body again out of the study already losing its cohesion without Feynriel’s desire to hold it in place.  _ “You cannot understand.” _

It hadn’t struck out. It hadn’t said anything cruel, hadn’t tried to wound Fenris. She had no idea what to make of it, but...it was still Anders’ body, and his footsteps in which she followed. She prayed, again, that he would be waiting when they returned. That he would be free.

_ Someone  _ needed to be freed. Wings beat against glass jars behind her; dozens, hundreds of them, all trapped, all in shades of black, cream, and sapphire. She would see him freed.

**

“I can see all the seams, now.” Feynriel’s voice was wondering. “It’s so easy.” He turned back to her. “Thank you. Please, tell my mother. It’s easier to leave from here - she won’t understand.”

A twist, and the twisting walls of the Gallows faded around her, along with Justice and Fenris. Is this what it was to die, or was this merely what mages encountered each dream they faced?

Marethari’s cool hands helped her sit up. Before she could ask questions, the old Keeper spoke. “I must thank you, Hawke. I had not thought it possible. Feynriel is freed of his nightmares. He has sought out other teachers.”

She had to ask one question. Two. “Merrill…”

“She returned, some time ago.” The old woman’s face had closed, now remote and forbidding. “I will leave you to speak. Your other companions should awake soon. There is nothing more for me to say.” 

In the end, Merrill refused to say anything, scurrying with red-rimmed eyes back to her own shack. That left her to shoo off Fenris and wait next to Anders’ form.

Finally his eyelids fluttered.

“I’m here, love.”  _ Please.  _ “What happened?”

He returned the faint squeeze of her hand. She hoped, even as his head turned, eyes still closed.

“Anders?”

“You did it. You freed him.” His voice was warm and caressing; she leaned into it. “Thank you, love.”

Sabah leaned over to kiss him. It was private enough he was willing to return it; private, or was it because he was finally free to be the man she saw under the rage and certainty?  _ Please.  _

“I’m glad he supported you, since the ritual only took one of us.”

He understood. “So am I. He’s back in the Fade now.”

Anders blinked. “What?” He chuckled. “Don’t worry about that, dear. Justice is right here. We still have so much to do.”

Hope died. Whatever else might have happened, Justice was still there. Had Anders called it back, or were they truly so closely bound? It didn’t matter. There  _ would  _ be a way, somehow. Marethari might know something. Sabah swore she would ask. “Of course, love.”

“You sound tired. The Fade is not for the untrained. Head back to the Estate: I’ll come by later.”


	3. Finding - or Making - the Story

“Are you coming out for Wicked Grace tonight, Hawke? It’s been a while.”

She gave a tiny smile. “No, Varric – I…Anders wanted us to get a quiet night to ourselves. He’s got someone watching the clinic, so he shouldn’t even get called unless there’s a really bad injury.”

Varric’s eyes narrowed. “These quiet nights always seem to happen when it’s Wicked Grace, or Merrill planned a birthday party for Aveline, or something else where we’re all getting together. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t like us.”

“Nonsense, Varric.” Her voice was brisk, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Things have just been busy for a while. Between Mother and the Estate now that Bethany’s…out of the house, and the Underground, and Anders’ clinic, it’s hard for us to have time together.”

“Hawke, you don’t come out even when he’s working late.”

“I’ll come next time, Varric. We both will.”

“Sure, Hawke.” The door closed behind him.

“Did I hear right? You’re spending the night here, rather than in that Lowtown bar?”

Sabah kept her sigh quiet enough to keep it unheard. Of course Mother was listening. “Yes, Mother. I’ve already asked the cook for something special for dinner.”

She gave a wide smile. “Oh, wonderful! It’s been so lonely here.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’ve had no one, since your father died, then poor Carver. Now even Bethany’s gone – alive, in the same city, but not even allowed to come home for dinner, poor girl. My poor family.”

_She doesn’t think about what she says. She just doesn’t realize._ “I’m still here, Mother.”

“Of course you are – when you aren’t out doing whatever it is you do with those odd friends of yours.” She patted her daughter’s cheek. “It’s so good to have you here more often. Anders has been wonderful for you.”

**

_“Action. Hawke’s as good at talking as I am, but it’s not enough.” He chewed on the feathers of his quill, then grumbled as he picked the fibers out of his teeth, using the ale to clean out his mouth._

_‘They stopped, breathing hard. Surely this was it...but no. The cave shuddered and trembled under the powerful strides of a legend come to life. The varterral’s legs, even at the first joint, were taller than the lanky Warden who’d never forgiven the Dalish for her commitment to forbidden magics. The other elf, almost-forgotten slave that he was, charged into danger. It didn’t matter that he was protecting two mages - there was blood to be shed. It sheeted green around him as he was joined by the swift, darting blades of Hawke. Her talons were smaller, but had a lithe elegance almost wasted against the screaming horror of a mantis gone wrong.’_

_He sighed. “You’ve got to give me more to work with, Hawke. Ooh. I know…”_

_‘Blondie had stayed close-mouthed the entire way back; his love for her fought against the horror that she’d given someone_ he _saw as only a maleficar such a relic. She saw it as the tool Daisy needed to keep up her attempts to rebuild her people’s history. He’d followed her, silent, into her house. “Anders, I…”_

_Her words were silenced by his lips. This time, he could demand, could promise his loyalty without having to compromise his principles. “Sabah…”_

_Clothes fell, unheeded, onto the floor in time with his ragged words.’_

**

Before dawn, the dew kept things damp enough it was almost Ferelden. The same heavy scent, though the dirt crumbled differently in her fingers. Kirkwall’s soil had more sand. Not surprising, given where the city was, but it was different.

“Digging in the dirt?” 

Sabah didn’t look up at Anders’ words. 

“I thought a few herbs might be nice. Healing ones. You said the elfroot was ready to seed, and I bought some embrium starts at the market.”

He paced closer. “Embrium? Amrita vein would be better. At least the elfroot will be useful - there’s always more people that need healing than my powers can help.”

She knew. She’d heard often enough. No, that wasn’t fair. Her eyes stayed on the rich brown. In Baker’s Reach, the soil had been so rich it was black. Father, his eyes laughing, said anything would grow, given two sniffs and a smile.

They’d planted vegetables. Bethany had wanted melons, but Father said the soil was too wet and the vines would rot. Maybe with all the sand, melons could grow at the estate. “Amrita vein wants cooler weather, I was told.”

“Well, do whatever mucking in the dirt you want. I was just telling you what would be practical, but you don’t really have to worry about practicality any longer.” He sighed. “I’m going to the clinic. I can do something useful there.”

Sabah closed her eyes. He didn’t mean to hurt. She knew it was just his focus, his need to make things better. She knew that… “I’ll come by later. Bring some lunch for you and the patients.”

A kiss brushed her hair. “Thank you.” She could hear his boots against the flagstones as Anders walked away.

“Messere? Did you want the embrium starts brought out now? Your mother will be waking soon.”

Her heart beat twice before she answered him, her voice soft. “No, Bodhan. Window boxes, maybe. They smell nice - Mother might like them on her balcony. I’d like to find some melons to plant with the elfroot back here. Something more practical.” 

If she planted melons, maybe she could convince herself Bethany would leave the Circle to visit and try them. Opening her eyes, she brushed the dirt off her hands and started tucking the elfroot seeds into the front half of the bed she’d made.

**

_Doubt flickered until he shoved it aside. “It’ll be fine,” he muttered. “If I can put sodding Bartrand in the draft,” as abbreviated as it had been, “then this can, too. It’s Kirkwall.” Besides, pain sold._

 _‘The fire flickered in the hearth as the dirty form of Gamlen slunk out of the estate, mired in his own hate and stubborn filth. He didn’t see the lean mage who watched from the corner, waiting to go up and comfort Hawke. She’d lost the last of her innocence, distilled and sacrificed along with her mother. But he knew it wouldn’t stop her. She was_ Hawke, _the one good thing in the entire damned town. Well, the good thing that had led him to the rest._

_Her tears glittered against his hand as Anders held her. “You’ll be alright, Sabah,” he murmured._

_“I can’t let them blame all of you for this! He was one madman...that’s all he was.” She knew the rest; that madman was also a mage. It was why he’d killed the women who reminded him of his long-lost love...but she also knew he was far from the only madman in the town. His actions could have worse consequences if the truth came out._

_“You won’t, Sabah.” Her lover’s voice was clear with his own faith. “You’re better than that - better than all of us.”_

_The loss didn’t vanish, but his words and the memories of her friends helped her take those first tentative steps toward healing. She’d been untouched by tragedy until this moment; now, Sabah Hawke knew what she’d defended Kirkwall against. Her faith was renewed.’_

_A dark hand split by white brands picked up what he’d left. “What is this?”_

_“Nothing, elf. Just...trying to get everything written down. You’re living in a story. We all are. Doesn’t hurt to be the one to write it. Don’t worry, I’ll change the names to protect the guilty.”_

_The elf shrugged. “Change them or not. Let Denarius come.” He set them down carefully. “Are these lies as big as the ones you tell over ale?”_

_“Ouch!” He chuckled. “Easy there, elf. I tell stories. It’s my job to let people know what things should be. Besides, with Hawke it’s_ easy _as pie. She’s too good for all of this, a bloody hero in the flesh.”_

_His companion’s head turned, hiding his face. “Truer words were never said.”_

**

Orana tensed at the shouting. It had been a bad day, and the Champion had come home crying. Lady Amell hadn’t come home at all. Her uncle’s voice had the last word. “This is why mages are feared! Now, I understand the hate.”

Gamlen stormed out, not even looking into the doorway, but came up short when the mage looked at him. She shivered, unseen, at the hollow voice, the _bad_ voice. “You should be grateful you have never acted on that fear.” The door shut, and she heard a sigh from beside her as the mage made his way up the stairs.

“He’s only getting worse, and she refuses to see it.” Fenris held up a hand. “No, I shouldn’t have. She doesn’t need more pain, not tonight.”

No, she didn’t. Lady Hawke didn’t need their own uneasiness added to what she already carried. She saw his eyes, and knew he still cared…but so did she. The lute’s mournful melody drifted through the evening, mingled with the crackling fire.

**

“…and ungrateful! He’s found his freedom, but keeps insisting I stay ‘respectful,’” she winced at the way he/ _They_ spit out that word, “but without even _once_ acknowledging that what happens to the mages is even…”

Sabah let her mind drift as he/ _They_ slipped into the familiar rant, paying just enough attention to murmur in the right places. She’d learned over the years that arguing with _Them,_ even when _They_ were wrong, just brought Justice closer to the surface – the last thing she wanted. Instead, she watched the waterfall, quiet inside, as it roared over the cliffs into the Waking Sea, the spray hiding the point where the water was lost under the surging aquamarine waves.

“I don’t even understand why you helped him on his mad drive for revenge!” Anders’ voice broke her inner stillness.

“Because he asked, Anders.” She kept her voice quiet, but knew the tired tone would anger him. It had just been…a long, and painful week. “Because he’s a friend.” _Once you would have known that. And if Justice is gone, perhaps you will again?_ Perhaps. Maybe. _If only._ But his soft, disbelieving laugh when he’d come to the estate, the feel of his calloused fingers against her skin…surely, he was still there. He had to be, the way the waves surged in his eyes, pulled her into the depths.

“He _asked? That’s it?”_ His voice grew louder.

She turned to him. “Yes.” Out here, she just had to worry about his reactions, not those of Varric, or Aveline, or…or Fenris. The pain and utter loneliness in his eyes as he looked up from the ambush and realized he was still hunted ached in her own breast. She couldn’t turn away from pain, from loneliness. Not if she could help. A moment of bitterness slipped through her thoughts. _Wasn’t that how she’d fallen for Anders?_ She suppressed it. No. Anders was more than bitter pain and loneliness. He was passion, and compassion, and…and he was still waiting for an answer. “Do you turn people from your clinic, turn away from your friends? He asked, Anders. Of course I went with him. So did Varric. So did Isabela.”

He threw his hands in the air and his voice turned cutting. “But not me. Not your lover, not the one who’s healed you, kept you standing, more often than not.”

“No. Because it wouldn’t have helped.” His eyes flared, and she flinched. Those were the wrong words, she’d known as soon as they’d come out. They were true, but that didn’t matter. If she hadn’t been so tired, she wouldn’t have said something so hurtful. “Love, wait! No, it’s not that…it’s that I knew you wouldn’t be comfortable, knew how much you’d been working with the Mage Underground, and your clinic, and…”

“…and knew I’d object.” Hard and flat, angry, but it was still him, not _Them._

Sabah sighed, defeated. “Yes. And knew you’d object.” She turned from his glare, faced the other aquamarine depths that could drown her, but knew they were not the threat up here. Instead, she watched the spray fade out across the breeze, becoming nothing, away from the waves crashing against the rocks. The falling water was drug back into the salty depths, where it would just…disappear, merge with the waves, become one with the ocean until the heat stripped it away again into the clouds. She pulled her knees up against her chest, rested her cheek on them and turned back to face the depths that could drown her _here,_ on dry land. “Anders…”

He sighed. “It’s enough that you’re apologizing. I just…I worry. He’s not safe, and what he’s doing, taunting them…I just don’t want you hurt.”

“Of course not.” She tried a faint smile. “But we have some time to ourselves now, without Mother hovering over us…”

He sat down next to her, pulled her close. “And we should enjoy it. But…oh, Sabah.” He sighed again. “I know you care, you just…you care too much. Not everyone deserves it.”

She leaned in, ignoring the bruises his words had left. He didn’t mean them. She knew he just worried for her, worried that her love was as transitory as everything else had been in his life. He’d lost everything else; Sabah understood his fear of losing what they now had. The tears dried before they fell. It _was_ a beautiful day. They should enjoy it.

**

_ The nobles crushed around her, leaving a pool of uneasy emptiness around the enormous statue-like corpse still bleeding from the hundreds of rents Hawke had decorated it with. They couldn’t thank her enough, as she wiped down her daggers and waved them off. Sweat and blood of unknown provenance mixed and dripped from her armor, but that didn’t matter. The Viscount, keeper of peace, had failed. His head had been forgotten, rolled into a forgotten corner with his crown. _

_ Sabah Hawke, derided refugee, had proved herself. Exhaustion and sorrow for everything the Qunari had done warred with triumph. “People of Kirkwall, we are free!” _

_ The other beasts that had watched the unexpected duel filed out. Hawke’s mercy kept them untouched so long as they committed no more violence.  _ She,  _ survivor of a Blight, knew better than to blame those drug along by their leader. The Arishok had started an invasion and executed the Viscount? The Arishok, and Arishok alone, paid for that decision thanks to her bravery and the diplomacy of a former slave. _

_ Somehow it fit Kirkwall, City of Chains.’ _

**

Everything fell in a daze of horror and pain. She panted, held up by an arm. “Easy,” an unexpected voice murmured in accented Trade. “Mage. She needs you.”

“What do you think I’m doing, standing around and admiring? Keep your advice to yourself. I’m a healer, I know what I’m doing.” The agony of Anders’ spells convulsed her bones. Sabah tasted more blood as she bit back a whimper - Anders did better without distractions. “Besides, every one of those is  _ your  _ fault, forcing her to fight that beast on her own. There.” His voice shifted to something soft and sweet. A tear forced itself out. “Sabah, look at me.”

The hands shifted, and it was Anders’ arms she was in when she opened her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

The faintest blue cracks showed against his skin. She quailed. “You shouldn’t have been doing that in the first place! Sabah, you  _ know  _ that. You don’t have to do anything just because  _ he  _ thinks it’s a good idea.”

It  _ was  _ a good idea. Saying that would change nothing. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Varric’s chuckle further back pushed an unwilling smile to Anders’ face, and the cracks faded. “This time, Sabah.”

“So.” A controlled voice used to command forced her to turn, still standing thanks to another’s strength. Meredith, Knight-Commander of Kirkwall’s Circle. The woman Anders blamed for everything. Luckily he stayed still as death, the arm holding her so tense it almost trembled - or was that her? Justice had vanished again. 

_ Focus.  _ The woman stepped forward, easy in her armor, ignoring the poor Viscount’s still-open eyes as they accused Sabah of not stopping this war. “It seems,” her lips pursed, “Kirkwall has a new Champion.”

_ Champion? Her?  _ If she’d had the energy, she would have laughed in disbelief. Instead, Anders caught her as darkness finally claimed its due.


	4. What is Truth?

“Hawke – are you sure? Crazy isn’t a good thing to tie your life to.”

She just shook her head. Anders had been here, just now – joking and smiling like he used to; before Alrik, before he’d almost killed that mage, before the Mage Underground had been shut down and he became desperate to find a way to protect people like Bethany. “If he heard you talking like this, you’d really see him angry.” Was that the right amount of teasing in her voice? His hazel eyes looked up at her. She could see the concern, but it was different. It wasn’t concern that she was making the wrong decisions again, or for what she could offer, it was concern for  _ her, _ for her well-being. She shied away from admitting that, acknowledging how unique that was in her world.

“I…whatever you say, Hawke. Just know I’m around if you need a shoulder, or anything else.”

Almost no one was any longer. Oh, Merrill would always come out, but Anders wasn’t happy with her because of her frighteningly cheerful attitude toward blood magic. And Sabah had seen enough blood.

**

“Hawke, maybe you should…take things easier. Those slavers almost did you in.”

They had. She could feel the wounds tracing her skin, see the blood that had soaked her clothes then dripped on the uncaring, dead ground here in Darktown. She had felt the comfort of his magic, knitting her back together. It was agonizing, but she had never told him that, never would. “I’ll be fine, Varric. Anders won’t let me fall.” She tried for the jaunty tone he’d expect. She knew she failed when Fenris shot her a quick glance. No, she hadn’t. Varric had accepted it, even if the elf knew better.

He shook his head, but tossed out a half-smile. “Whatever you say, Hawke. Just…if you’re still going up against the bad boys, you need to practice a bit more.”

“Why, Varric? I have someone attacking me just for leaving the estate these days!” That got a laugh. If only she could laugh like that, free and easy. Becoming the Champion hadn’t made things easier – as the years passed there were always more problems for her to solve, more work to do, more responsibility. But Mother…oh, Mother was gone. She had always said Hawke gave too much outside the family, never had enough left for those who loved her. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t been able to save her. 

_ Dark eyes grew darker, blood still dripping from the patchwork seams. All she could hear was Anders’ helpless voice as the last of the mother she loved vanished. “I can’t save her, Hawke. The magic was bound to the mage.” And the mage was in several pieces, thanks to her – his arm was still pinned to the wall, a gift from Bianca that let her sever it. They stopped the spells…but that meant she killed what was left of the woman who’d borne borne her, who’d watched her fail her brother…who’d watched her delays sentence her sister to a life into chains in the dark heart of the City of Chains. Now she’ll watch nothing else. _

Anders’ face came to her along with the desperation he sometimes experienced when he and Justice pushed too hard.  _ No. I will give them everything I have, they are all I have left. They need every part of me, it’s how they hold on to sanity and reality. He’s all I have left, and I won’t fail him, too. _

**

He remembered Nathaniel Howe. Both he and Justice did, even if they remembered him differently now. Rigid.  _ Honorable.  _ Boring.  _ Faithful. _

_ HE WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND.  _ They were in agreement on that.

_ He helped us.  _ He abandoned us.

“Anders?”

He looked up at that worried voice, into faded sapphire eyes. Faded. She’d faded, over the years, but she was  _ his,  _ something the Templars couldn’t take away. They’d tried - it was  _ Meredith’s  _ fault she’d lost some of her sparkle. She was still beautiful, still everything he could want.  _ She is not. You want more than just one person, or we would not be together. Do not let her sway you from our course.  _

“Of course I’ll come. We can’t just leave him down there, after all.”  _ We should. _ We owe him. They did, and the other voice subsided. But Justice was right - Nathaniel would not be understanding of what they’d done…not at all.

He hated the Deep Roads.  _ He loved the simplicity of the Deep Roads.  _ Darkspawn, everywhere he could sense…and  _ there,  _ the one who was Tainted, but different. Nathaniel was still alive. He went back to destroying the Darkspawn, keeping them away from his love, his Hawke with the sapphire eyes and satin skin, patching it up with his magic and ignoring the blood that marred it. The Templars wouldn’t take her from him, and the Maker-damned Darkspawn wouldn’t either.

“Anders!” He could hear the surprise in Nathaniel’s sandy voice, even if the others couldn’t. At least it didn’t grate the way Fenris’ did. Then again, Nathaniel didn’t look at his lover the way the elf did, didn’t want to devour her, didn’t want to claim her. Fenris couldn’t have her, she was  _ his. His _ love, his bright spot with her soft smile and gentle touch, her passion that rose with the slightest push.

He looked over – they were of a height, bright and dark, sun and shadow. At least, that’s what Alissa would say, teasing. Maybe she could help.  _ Maybe she would destroy us.  _ Besides, Alissa was too direct to say something like that. No. That was  _ Wynne,  _ not Alissa. He already knew Wynne wouldn’t understand.  _ She made the same choice.  _ It didn’t matter. The same argument – and the same result. 

He kept his voice light as he responded. “Making friends as always, I see.” He watched Nathaniel send a stray bolt into one of the Darkspawn that hadn’t stopped twitching yet.  _ They are not friends.  _ It is a human thing. 

“There’s no escaping you it seems.” While Nathaniel’s voice was dry, there were wrinkles by his eyes, a shift in how he held his head. Pleasure?  _ Relief.  _

Escape? They hadn’t escaped,  _ he  _ had escaped? Would she? NO. No, she didn’t want to, not  _ his  _ love. She swore she’d always be there, by his side, where she belonged. “I’m special that way.”

Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed. Andraste, had he seen? Seen them?

No. Nathaniel turned to face his Sabah, who had asked a question. “You went further into the deep roads than anyone thought possible. The First Warden himself ordered this investigation.”

He tuned out the rest of the outer conversation so he could return to the inner, keeping one wary eye on Sabah to make sure everything went the way it should.

We should tell him.  _ We can’t tell him.  _ He might understand.  _ He might try kill us. Or worse, stop us.  _

_ WATCH. WE CAN’T KILL HIM, BUT WE CAN WATCH.  _

Nathaniel refused to leave. “I cannot leave now. When we were attacked, I was separated from the rest of my expedition,” he sighed, “but who still lives, only the Maker knows.”

His words had grown more spare as the Taint had spread. Or was it having to deal with all the other Wardens? He’d warned Nathaniel that they weren’t all suited, that some were fanatics. He’d  _ seen  _ it, knew there were many who wouldn’t understand what needed to be done.

No, that wasn’t him.  _ Was it him? _

So much blurred these days, so he focused instead on what kept him centered, what kept him able to smile. She was so delicate, so beautiful. He had protected her from anything. He  _ would  _ protect her from everything.  _ Even from what we must do?  _ Anders ignored that question – it hadn’t come to that.  _ What if it does?  _ It wouldn’t.

They walked further into the Deep Roads and he drifted to Nathaniel’s left just as he had years ago.

“What are you doing here, Anders?”

Such a simple question.  _ Making things right.  _ Because he wouldn’t leave her. Both. They could do both, couldn’t they? “Trying to make things better,” he spoke quietly, ignoring the woman in front of them, the woman he couldn’t ignore, wouldn’t lose. Would Nathaniel understand?  _ Could  _ he?

_ If anyone could understand, it is him.  _ Someone  _ did  _ understand, and it was  _ her.  _

“Are you sure you’re making things better, Anders?”

_ YES.  _ If they weren’t, then it was all for nothing. No, not nothing: he’d found  _ her.  _

_ She doesn’t matter compared to the plight of the mages.  _ She was everything to him, proof that mages could have someone to love, that they  _ could  _ love.

_ What is this ‘love’ against the darkness?  _ Rage filled him. He pushed it down. Love is  _ everything  _ against the darkness, the reason to fight. She gives me the strength to do what we must.

Anders ignored her questions after they’d battled the Darkspawn back past sensing because he already knew what Nathaniel would say. Wardens didn’t give up their secrets. Instead, he studied the man he once saw as a friend. Once he’d again refused to answer Sabah, Anders asked a question.

“What now? Will you tell them about me?”

Nathaniel gave him a long look, then flickered his gaze forward, where  _ she  _ walked.

_ Let him have her.  _ He couldn’t have her. She was  _ his.  _ She understood them.  _ She can’t understand us.  _

Nathaniel kept walking, as Anders tried to fight down the anger crackling along his skin. No. She wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t leave  _ them _ . She understood, no matter what they thought.  _ He should take her with him. She is a distraction.  _ She is an inspiration. 

_ IT DOESN’T MATTER. SHE WON’T LEAVE.  _ No, she’d never leave him. She couldn’t leave him.

Most of those who’d come with Nathaniel were dead. Anders didn’t look at the bodies but hefelt the emptiness around him. Emptiness and death, was that all there was?  _ There is purpose. Justice.  _ There was love, there was  _ she.  _

“I fear we have come all this way for nothing.” Nathaniel sighed over another corpse in blue and silver – the colors Anders had briefly worn as well. But it didn’t match his eyes…or his skin, once things had changed and he’d saved Justice. Now, he served Justice, but he didn’t serve alone because  _ she  _ served  _ him.  _ No, they served each other.

His head turned just like Nathaniel’s, at the whispers that grew closer, full of rage and hate. He’d never become that.  _ They’d  _ never become that.  _ It is not just.  _ It was not necessary; they could free the mages without it. He whirled around as he felt one rushing closer, cut down the Genlock with the blade of his staff, then sent a portion healing magic into Sabah to restore the porcelain skin he loved to touch.

Nathaniel spoke while collecting spent arrows. “For the first time since I’ve been down here, I don’t sense a single darkspawn. The route to the surface should be safe now. Because of you, I will see my sister and nephew again.”

The man was right –  _ they  _ sensed no darkspawn either, the miasma of hate and hunger that twanged under his skin.  _ The injustice that irritates as I feel it brush against me.  _ Anders watched as Sabah tried one more time to get answers she’d never reach.

Finally, Nathaniel bowed. He  _ bowed? She  _ said she bowed to him, bent to him, but that was nonsense. She was intelligent enough to know when she was wrong or doing something dangerous, that was all. “I apologise I couldn’t answer all your questions. You may have them yet in the fullness of time.”

_ We could tell her.  _ We could avoid it. The answers wouldn’t please her, and could drive her away.  _ We are better without her.  _ We are nothing without her. She was his lodestone, his focus as he spent his attention and effort toward the mages. She was the rock who was there, the reason he did everything. Love.  _ Jealousy.  _ The emotions swirled.

“Will you tell them about me?” He demanded an answer one more time.

Nathaniel gave him a final look. “No,” he said slowly, his voice grinding across Anders’ attention. “I don’t think it would do anyone any good.”

“What does that mean?”

His fellow Warden thought, still as the Stone the dwarves worshipped. “I don’t think it would do any good,” he finally stated. “You’ve changed, Anders.”

“Nonsense. I just found something worth fighting for.”  _ Something.  _ Someone. “Do you remember when all I wanted was a pretty girl and lightning bolts?”

His eyes shifted toward Sabah,  _ his  _ Sabah, sapphire and ebony against snow-pale skin. Here, it looked flush from the torches, but he knew the color better than his own. Finally, Nathaniel responded. “And?”

Anders shook his head. “Now that I have them, it’s not enough.”

“You do not  _ have  _ another person.”

_ ‘I’m yours, Anders.’  _ He shrugged back at the dark archer. “She says I do.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “Nothing good will come of this. But I…for the sake of our friendship, I’ll just ask you to not.”

_ He understands.  _ He can’t understand.

The Warden said one final thing. “Maker watch over you, Champion.”

_ No!  _ The Maker didn’t need to.  _ He  _ watched over her, always.

Nathaniel flicked one last glance toward him. “Nothing good,” he muttered to himself - but  _ They  _ heard. Then he turned and walked away.

**

She should be happy. She _ was  _ happy. She was. Her lover was passionate and dedicated to helping those in need, her friends helped her and asked for help, and she was Champion of Kirkwall.  _ She,  _ daughter of an apostate, had reclaimed her noble title and estate and had saved the city both parents were from. She’d done things that  _ mattered.  _ The fine tapestries and thick carpets caught her eyes with their rich patterns, the wooden chairs and little tables gleamed as she ran a finger along them. Five years ago, who would have imagined? Not her, struggling with Bethany to keep her family fed. Bethany, who’d found a place of her own, a  _ respected  _ place in the Circle.

She’d been offered leave, at her request. Sabah, Champion of Kirkwall, Lady Amell...or Hawke, had petitioned and it had been granted by the Knight-Commander.

Bethany refused to come. She’d used it to visit their uncle instead. Sabah only found out after.

In a Circle where every other Templar, it seemed, was out to destroy all mages, her sister thrived. Her own lover was an apostate, protected by her position and his stopping two plagues.

She was happy. 

Everyone else had gone to bed. Only a couple candles were lit along with the lantern outside the Estate in case he came that way. The warm light gleamed as she wandered the still cavern - no, spacious foyer, waiting for him.  _ Them. _ No, him.  _ He  _ was in control, not the other. He was the one who cared enough to work all hours at his clinic, the one whose smile could sweep her off her feet. Even when Justice had tried to claim him, he’d heard her. He’d listened. They were building a life together, they  _ were. _

No one could hear the tiny, strangled sound that forced itself from her throat as she looked at mother’s chair - the chair no one would sit in again - still centered in front of the marble fireplace. The Amell crest hung, its pride mocking her, above the mantle.

Sabah sank against the wall, staring as the crest bled into the flames, and saw everyone else. Carver, who’d only tried to protect them. Shadowed further back stood their father. Father, who’d died of an unknown illness and was sent to Andraste by a cleric who was blind to what burned within him. Mother, killed by an apostate - no, by a madman. She  _ wouldn’t  _ fall into that way of thought. All the other people she’d failed rose up. Seamus. The Viscount. Poor Peaches, who sent Carver increasingly lewd letters every six months, and she’d not had the courage to tell her he had died five years ago just outside the town he’d loved, from the very creatures he’d fled to warn them. So many others. Emeric, though  _ that  _ was a name she wouldn’t mention in front of Anders. Alain, nervous where he was and Grace angry that they hadn’t stayed free. The hundreds who’d died against the Arishok -  _ they  _ had paid the real price for her title. Her own scars didn’t matter.

The crest vanished in a blur of red and gold, the red and gold of the Chantry she’d once loved, the Chantry her lover had come to hate. She should be happy. She  _ was  _ happy. She was.

Sabah buried her head in her arms, hiding from the silent tears that ran between her knees. Where had it gone so wrong?


	5. The Tale's End

“...there can be no peace.” _He/They_ spoke, and she turned along with Orsino and Meredith to face him. His skin cracked with blue.

Sabah froze. Horror shut down her wary vigilance; she didn’t see Meredith’s face, whether the Knight-Commander now knew what Anders had become. _Anders. They_ had done something. Something terrible. “Anders, what have you done?” He didn’t answer, but _Their_ plans did. The night vanished around them as light flared into the darkness.

Chaos left her with only impressions, forcing through the stunned realization. Shouts, anger. Meredith, threatening the Circle. Her sister. Innocents, at least in this. She knew who had done this. _‘Distract Elthina.’ ‘Don’t you love me?’_ There were only two who were guilty, and Meredith was threatening the wrong Hawke. “No. Not the Circle.”

She looked at _him/Them,_ the first tears spilling hot along her cheek. He’d said he’d cared. He’d spoken of healing, of love. 

“This was the only way.” His voice held no comprehension of the blood he had spilled, the blood he wanted spilled. All he could see was his own reasons, his justifications, his madness. She felt her soul cracking, through the disbelief, through the pain. _He’d meant for Meredith to call for annulment. He’d meant or all the death._

“No.” She only breathed the word as she went into his arms once more, this time to hide from his words. Even now, she bent under his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers, as she always did. _They wanted a massacre._ It wasn’t just Justice. She couldn’t hide this time. He’d lied to her.

The explosion hadn’t just shattered the Chantry, it had finally shattered her trust, much too late. She’d believed him. She’d believed him about Fenris, about the mages, about Justice, about the potion...she’d believed he loved her. Sabah wrapped her arms around him as her eyes closed, pulled him closer...then drove the blade through both their hearts. _It had always been lies._ Sabah felt his gasp against her, fell to her knees with him as his lips grew cold against hers. 

_“Thank you.”_

Surely she only imagined the words in the breeze? She bent her head as his hands fell out of her hair. Her scream choked in her throat rather than spiraling into the night he’d already shattered. A voice raged and demanded - Varric, but this time she had nothing left to give. No reason to pretend. Slender, armored hands grabbed her shoulders, drug her to her feet. A hand banded with steel slapped across her face, and she looked into Fenris’ eyes.

“There is no time. We,” he snorted to himself, ‘have to get to the Gallows. To protect the mages.” Hearing those words...from him, the one she’d heard for so long would serve the Knight-Commander...she nodded like a broken doll. It broke through her shock enough for her to look around and see the blood. Everywhere, the blood. Madness flowed through the air, the night shattered by _her_ blindness. Everything was gone. A shattered Chantry, shattered lives. Shattered certainty. It hurt to breathe.

**

She stood to face Cullen, the aftermath of the battle surrounding them. Both Knight-Commander and First Enchanter were dead, along with so many others...and the one who had started everything. The others stood unwanted at her back. “Go.” Her voice whispered, all she had left. “All of you, go. Now.” A key was pressed into her hand - someone must have taken it from _his_ body. “Go.” This time they did, Varric pulled away by Fenris, as she faced the Knight-Captain. Blood streamed down his face. She looked into his eyes, saw the same shocked horror replaced by dawning comprehension. Sabah handed him the key. _She_ didn’t need another, especially not this one. “Here. The estate - take what you need.” Bitterness. “There are plenty of empty rooms.” He nodded, still silent, waiting as she did for the others to go. Not even Bethany turned around. 

They all left her to her own pain, to face what she had done. 

No, Varric was dragged. No matter. They were far enough. “Kill me.” This time, she wouldn’t run. She’d already killed them both.

He didn’t move.

“Kill me! This is my fault! I saw his madness...refused to. I could have, should have stopped it, if I’d bothered to open my eyes. If only I’d...”

His hazel eyes held understanding, but no pity or hatred, as he rested a finger on her lips. He should hate her. “I can say the same of Meredith.” He shook his head, and that shake cracked the cocoon of disbelief and pain that shrouded what was left of her, in a way the oceans of blood hadn’t. “I’ll...thank you, Hawke. I’ll take you up on your offer.” She wouldn’t be alone. But always had been. She shuddered. “Go.”

She went. Left the shattered Gallows, the mages they’d managed to save, even from themselves. It was not enough. Cold lips against hers, her blade through his heart. Their hearts. She sat in the dark estate, silent, still. Fearing the night, the faces she would see in her dreams. Her mother’s - alive and disapproving, or torn apart, with pride shining for the first time? Her brother’s, rage and desperation, and bloody broken on Blighted ground. The hundreds...thousands...she would never know them all. And aquamarine eyes, passion...and lies. They had always been lies. She had always been alone. She faced the ghosts of those she’d failed, their crushing weight...and no longer tried to resist.

**

Back and forth. She could know the steps, if counting mattered…from the door she feared to enter, to the door to her mother’s room. From there along the railing and back to the door that had meant everything to her once. But what mattered, now?

Sabah flinched away from answering that. Her courage had vanished along with her certainty, along with the Chantry and the Circle. Maker, the Circle, the death, Meredith’s madness – and the Knight-Captain, unexpectedly certain, standing up to her. Which her? The one Varric wrote, the one _he_ had used, or the one who had ended everything? The world spun between Meredith and her violence and herself, begging for an end she wasn’t given. She didn’t deserve mercy.

The balcony, the hallway – it was too short. She turned from her door again, _their_ door, she’d invited him into her bed, into her heart, into her home. If only – if only she’d known he would destroy her, destroy everything. But his passion, his healing, a mage not bound to the Circle…his lies. And she’d lapped them up like one of his feral cats, desperate for affection, for words of kindness. Though even those were wrapped in possession – possession of _her_ , of her choices, of her life. He was gone now, too late. Too late for the Chantry, too late for the Circle, too late for Meredith driven mad by the red lyrium his maps had led them to, too late for her, the Champion that never was.

Sabah flinched at the tentative footsteps she heard pacing a measured beat along the carpets. She’d sent everyone away, hadn’t she? No, the servants had left on their own, just like the people she’d called friends. No, Fenris had gotten them out because she hadn’t been able to think that far, had failed even those who directly relied on her for their wellbeing. Who?

The first thing she saw was mussed blonde hair. A Templar. A laugh almost bubbled out, harsh and mocking. That’s right. She’d invited the Knight-Captain, or was he now Knight-Commander? She’d invited him to stay at her Estate. The man she’d begged to kill her. The Templar whose duty it was to destroy dangerous apostates – but she wasn’t that. She’d just fallen under _his_ sway. The man who’d cut down his Knight-Commander in the end looked around the empty hall. It was a Templar who had protected her sister better than she had, who’d refused to judge her as she’d judged Anders. Sabah whimpered as she finally thought _his_ name, the one she’d fallen for, fallen into, fallen beneath the weight of the lies and the passion and the desperate need.

“Sabah?” His voice was calm – quiet like his eyes. It offered, it didn’t demand, didn’t insist.

“I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” She felt bitter disgust again. All hail Varric’s Champion, who couldn’t even complete a sentence in front of the man who’d refused to kill her. A rarity, in Kirkwall. Most men she knew had tried…and one, the one she killed, may yet succeed. She turned from that. Instead, Sabah turned to face the interloper - no, the guest, the Templar with the quiet hazel eyes – though they were darker, almost caramel in the light.

“I wasn’t asleep.” He hesitated a moment. “May I make some tea?” He turned at the jagged movement of her head – of course she wouldn’t stop him. She could hear him rummaging through the bare kitchen, followed by the sound of water splashing and the kettle, echoing through the empty house.

It was easier to watch her hand than to think, to wonder at it touching the smooth wood of the railing, rough where Isabella had carved into it. Easier to count the wrinkles, amazed the blood had washed off than count the stairs as she drifted down. But then she was there and looking into his eyes, level with her on the bottom step, close enough to touch. He didn’t – just held out a hand with a steaming mug. The heat against her icy hands was shocking, but less so than the moment a fingertip brushed his. How long since she’d touched anyone but _him?_ She couldn’t remember; days blurred into months, years of struggle, passion, jealousy and isolation – and blood, always the blood. Kirkwall, City of Chains, city of nightmares, city of violence. The city was built on blood, built _for_ blood, and it remembered.

He touched her again when she almost stumbled, the mug in her hand throwing her precarious balance. Or was it having someone here? No, he wasn’t just _here_. A hand steadied her arm to keep her from falling. It was too much, too raw...too new a sensation. That hand didn’t belong here, especially not once it moved to brush away the tears – surely, that was just the steam. No, she’d had too many lies.

“You didn’t kill me when I asked.” She watched the steam, let her voice fade into the silence, as shattered as her heart by the screams she’d held in .

“No, I didn’t.”

The silence stretched.

Was it a sigh, or just breathing out the heat of the tea? “There had been too much blood.”

Blood. It filled her memory. Blood on her hands, on the dagger she left in _his_ back, the daggers she’d dropped – that the Templar had brought back. Cullen. But he’d cleaned them first. Blood on his face, from his Knight-Commander’s sword, from when he’d refused her orders to kill innocents for what _he_ had used her to do. The blood on his lip had dried – he didn’t move as her fingers brushed across it. “It will scar.” The only healer she’d known who was skilled enough to have erased the scar was the one who had killed dozens - no, more, who had killed her when he forced her to kill _him._ She just hadn’t died yet.

“We all have scars.”

This time, she flinched from the quiet, from the understanding, from the offer she feared might be there. Or did she just hope it was? No, no, of course she didn’t. Why would she hope for the impossible, for letting someone close enough to cut with the daggers of cracked crystal? Who would care about the shards of who she had been?

They drank their tea in silence. She felt the shivers fade into the shadows of her mind, at least for a moment. The raw, pulsing pain did not. Would not, _could_ not. If she lost the pain, what else was she? In the quiet, she feared. She watched, as he took the mugs – as she heard the splashing of water. Of course, he would clean up. She was still there when he walked back out, met his quiet hazel eyes with her own cracked gaze.

Even without any hate, she couldn’t hold it. It was easier to drop her eyes, to see the blood on his lip, the scar that would form, as she stepped closer.

“Sabah.” A statement – and a question.

She closed her eyes against his quiet voice, so different from _his_ frenzied passion. “It’s just…so empty here, all I can hear are the ghosts. They’ll come for me.” Close, too close to him, but she tried not to think about what she was asking.

“I’m here. Tonight, they don’t have to.” She turned her head into his neck, now close enough to touch, as she felt arms around her. “It’s late. I’m going back to bed.” His eyes watched her as he stepped back…and she reached out a hand, let her fingers slide into his.

The ghosts, _his_ ghost, would still be there. She wouldn’t - couldn’t - fight it. She’d never been able to fight _him_. But for tonight, she could let someone else guard her dreams.

**

Sabah woke up and realized she was in the wrong man’s arms. This wasn’t _him,_ wasn’t _Them._ She’d woken to his muttering incoherently and thrashing in his sleep. _He_ never had, sleeping still as death.

Death.

_ He was dead now – were they both? _

A choked sob crept out and the wrong man cried out. Not a plea, a startled half-shout before hazel eyes opened under too-short blonde hair. “I…oh.” He had more scars, and more lines down a clean-shaven face. It wasn’t now, but it would be.

“I woke you. I’m sorry.” She bit her lip.

“No…Sabah?” His eyes focused, and a calloused hand brushed her cheek, the other still under her head, holding her close.  _ That  _ was what woke her. “Sabah, what is it?”

Shouts, she could have used to rebuild the walls of shattered glass. Compassion broke her completely. “They…they think I’ll forget.  _ They  _ thought…they thought I’d forget. I can’t. I remember…remember everything. Every word, every gesture, the tone of _ his _ voice, the way  _ he _ smiled…” He’d never smiled like that at her.

No.

He had, once. Hadn’t he? 

“Sshh.” It wasn’t a command, but she throttled her sobs even if she couldn’t do the same with her tears. Instead, she let him tuck her head against the hollow of his chest. “Sshh. Remembering is…hard.” He said nothing she needed to understand, no matter how she tensed, making sure she could hear. Nonsense words, a soothing murmur.

A light voice darkened by what they’d both shared, both suffered.

At least, if it was the wrong man, it was also the wrong bed.

She pushed away from his comfort. He’d already given her more than she deserved.

“Sabah?”

“Stay and sleep, Cullen…I’ll be fine. I wanted to get something to drink. Should I make us breakfast?” The habit of years – fill the uneasy silence with the mundane, and everything would be alright. She didn’t look at him. “I’m sure there’s something. Wasn’t there something? Bodhan – no, he left. Bread, and cheese, and…”

“I’m fine.” His voice was wrong. No, the other had been, too...eventually. _ That  _ heartache she held to her closer than she had a lover, because  _ he _ had never let her. “I’ll eat back at the Gallows, after I train.”

Before she could turn, he’d already pulled on pants and was reaching for a shirt, hiding the greasy smears left from a fire blast. Who had it been? Which of the mages she’d stood for had responded by attacking the man who had tried to save as many lives as he could? She’d never know. Probably one of the dead ones.

There were so many dead, but only one she could see whenever her eyes closed, the breath she’d never again feel in her hair, the eyes she’d never drown in…the faint glow as  _ They  _ spoke, as  _ They  _ lied to her.

She didn’t look again, just walked into the entry. Bodhan was gone, and Oranna…hadn’t…she hadn’t seen the elf, had she? No, there was something. Fenris. The house was empty. “The cat never came back. I put out milk, and it didn’t come back.”  _ His  _ cat had become an abomination, or was that  _ him?  _

“Sabah.”

_ His  _ hands were soft from all the washing, from the ointments he’d made, then used on the people he’d saved only to kill. This one wasn’t. It was rough, calloused. There was a cut by the wrist. “That should be cleaned. There’s something…somewhere, an ointment… _ he  _ always had…” She couldn’t say the name, not in this place poisoned by  _ his  _ words.

“No. Thank you.”

“You’re leaving.”

She wasn’t talking about today. This man didn’t pretend otherwise, didn’t take the easy way out. There were no easy ways out. “I must. They need the Knight-Commander present, and there is a room I can use now.” Her eyes closed. It meant she had to track him by sound in his worn boots – they were almost noiseless on the thick carpets mother had picked out years ago. “I…thank you, Sabah.” Lips brushed her hair, then her temple.

She hid one last time in the wrong man’s arms, and they closed around her. She couldn’t ask him to stay, wouldn’t. He needed to go. Needed to heal. He could still heal, if he could leave.

The man – spirit – both, that haunted this place wouldn’t let him heal here or stay, any more than they’d let Fenris stay close. Or Varric. No, whatever was left of Anders wouldn’t let her free. That had to be her choice, and she’d never been strong enough for that.

Even after she’d killed him, she still drowned in him, in the memories that wouldn’t fade. The other man, the wrong man, hadn’t gone. “Goodbye, Cullen.”

He gently kissed the tears where they flowed above her cheekbones. How long would he remember the taste? “Goodbye, Sabah.” The other words went unspoken…but not unheard.

_ If only. _

No. She couldn’t do that to him. Not after what she’d let  _ him  _ do to her. To them both. To them all.

_ I remember.  _ Her tears fell, unseen and unheeded, as he walked out the door and back to his life. Surrounded by the wreckage she’d made of hers, Sabah drifted to the sitting room and sank against Mother’s chair. She stared into the cold, dead hearth; it had no answers for her, no future to be seen in flickering flames. There had never been answers.

She wept again, letting the shattered pieces fall into the blood-soaked carpets, even if she was the only one who could see the blood. All the blood, all shed because of her choices, her blindness.


	6. Epilogue

_ Her eyes opened, to meet familiar turquoise that shifted from worry to joy. “Thank the Maker. I was so worried.” Anders smiled, pure and happy as a child. “Come along, Champion. Orsino asked us to join him for dinner, and I thought you’d keep sleeping. If I’d tried to wake you like I was considering, we  _ would  _ have been late.” _

_ Sabah blinked up at him, at an expression that fit oddly on his face. “Orsino?” _

_ A chuckle. “Orsino. To thank you for everything you did to open up the Gallows. Bethany should be there, and a few others. Cullen even offered to escort us ‘fellow Fereldens.’ Kind of him, after everything.” _

No.

_ “You’re not real. _

_ Orsino had no interest in her, the Gallows would never be open…and Bethany hadn’t answered any of her letters. She remembered…she hadn’t seen Beth since she’d put her hand on the Knight-Captain’s arm, to be locked away. _

_ “Love?” His honey-rich brows wrinkled. You …what is it? Is this some bad joke for my not finding the time to wake you properly?” There was the shift she’d expected behind the turquoise. A far too familiar one, for someone who wasn’t a mage. _

**

A practiced mental twist broke her free and let her sit up in bed, the darkness of her room around her. A sleepy protest from the back stretched out next to her, and Sabah carefully slid from under the sheets to keep from waking her lover with the ease of long-formed habit. There was always quill and ink where Anders was…she made a mark on the calendar. How long had it been since the last desire demon tried to claim her? The calendar blurred. It happened too often to count since Anders moved in. He’d not told her whether it was the presence of Justice, or whether it was due to the increasing tension and blood across the city.

“Sabah.”

Her heart skipped a moment. “I’ll be right back, love. It was another nightmare.”

He rolled over. “Another one? I’d hoped…” He sat, brushing back his loose hair when he saw her traitor tear. “Sabah?”

Anders held her, and the tears kept falling despite her efforts. “Oh, love.” His lips brushed her hair as gently as he held her then moved to her temple. They drifted to her cheek and whispered across her own lips, soft and damp. “Every tear I’ve caused, every moment of pain. I’ll make them up to you. I swear it. Come back to bed, come with me.” She couldn’t deny him her mouth, closing her eyes as her arms wrapped around his lanky height. His hands were so soft as they ran up her neck to cup her face.  _ ‘The joys of a healer mage – the salves, potions, and constant hand-washing.’ _

“My love,” she breathed. He’d  _ never  _ held her like this.

His kiss deepened until he broke it off to look into her eyes, then rested his forehead against hers. His hands drifted down, circled her again, traced the lines of her back. “Come with me. I’ll kiss away the tears, take away your pain. You deserve so much more, and I’ll give it to you. You come first. Always.”

The tears fell faster, and she buried her face against his chest.

“Sabah? My love? Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry. Tell me what I need to do.” His voice was soft, helpless.

The dagger was in her hand again, and she drove it through his back, through their hearts. Again.

Again and again.

Sabah opened her eyes, cheek against the embroidered chair. Dust, dead air, and despair filled her nose, heavy and familiar.  _ Again.  _ The last of her tears had fallen when Cullen left her to stillness and darkness, to build the cocoon she’d wrapped around herself to kept the pain from shredding what little was left of the woman she’d once been. There was a glass of water – she gulped it down, the liquid pouring easily into the wreck of her. When it was gone, she let the glass slip through her fingers to join the shattered wreckage of the others, a pile of fragments and splinters against the dust-covered carpets. It matched her inner landscape, though there was less blood when she opened her eyes.

Her fingers picked through the pieces until she found one easy enough to hold, and drew another slash across her arm.  _ One for every attempt.  _ Every night she had to re-live his death, in whatever cruel mockery the demons chose that time. The lines crossed each other in a haphazard pattern, the newest few still angry and red. This one dripped blood down her elbow and onto the pile of broken glass.

Blood and shattered pieces.

That was all that was left of her.

Blood, and shattered pieces – the glasses, her soul. Dull eyes glanced into the cold hearth and she fought to not remember. Memories only brought pain. How long since Varric had come again?

Three glasses left.

She had time before she had to pretend again, and laid her head back against the chair. The demons, Cullen had said, would begin to fade as the Veil healed. Anders had shattered that as surely as the Circle, as surely as what was left of her heart.

No. The dreams didn’t let her forget.  _ She  _ was the one who killed her heart.

**

The hand on the letter trembled. Thin, cracked…the delicate fingers still there, the care for them long gone.  _ Her  _ hand, though it didn’t look like it had in memory. How long since she’d gotten a letter? Since Varric had sent to say he’d arrived safe in Haven. Why would he send another?

_‘Hawke,_   
_I don’t want to do this to either of us.’_

She almost turned away, almost burned the letter – she could still remember how, even if the fireplace had been cold for…for…time blurred, since…she shook her head unconsciously, refusing, again, to follow that thought to its end. Her end. But she couldn’t, because a fragment of who she’d been insisted, reminded her of the laughter at the Hanged Man, the fact he’d never turned away, had helped hide the truth.

_ ‘I’d kept my word. I don’t know if you ever read the book, but I kept it. You, with everyone else, off to the hills. Vanished, like smoke. The Champion still out there, somewhere, but somewhere unreachable, unknowable. Shit. You still are, but – but I can’t not tell you. Haven was destroyed. By an army of corrupted Templars...’ _

Templars. She had been told to fear them, had avoided them…had worked against them because  _ he…THEY  _ had asked her to, demanded she support freedom, see the abuses they were capable of. And she’d seen the abuse, the violence. But another face floated forward, dark-blonde hair, hell in his eyes as well. The man who’d brought her  _ his  _ staff, after…after…who’d asked for other options she hadn’t been able to give, who’d ended the horrors. Who’d hid from his own nightmares here, in this place, who’d asked her for something she’d still been able to give, who hadn’t looked at her with pity. Who’d respected her enough to give her silence. Had he been corrupted? It had been Varric with the warning, but she’d heard his wording, before the Seekers came. And then he was gone, like everyone else.

_ ‘Cullen and the Herald held them off, got everyone out. Hawke, there’s no easy way to say this, and I wouldn’t believe it if there was any way for the Herald to have made it up. The army was led by Corypheus.’ _

The prison, the darkness - the death, the corruption. She remembered. It hurtled back at her. The ancient, withered voice…fire and madness, and more death. She’d thought she’d killed him, to free Bethany and her from danger – Bethany, whom she hadn’t saved from the Gallows, tried to protect her but failed, abandoned her instead, but who had still come with her in the end. She’d risked herself just as  _ he  _ had, but  _ he’d  _ followed her everywhere, had come with her no matter what the risk. Why? He said he loved her, that  _ they  _ needed her, that he wanted to make something different of this world. A bitter laugh surprised her, surprised the silence that blanketed the dusty, forgotten rooms. And what a difference had been made.

She looked at the letter again. Corypheus. Another failure…would he go after Bethany again? She’d sent letters to the estate after she’d escaped Kirkwall, again and again, until the weight of the silence had stopped those, too.

She got up, walking through dusty, dark rooms until she came to the door she hadn’t entered, not since…since…her hand trembled on the door - she pushed it open, the whispers of the woman she’d once been forcing her forward. Her chest: armor, clothes, boots, daggers. A cloak and blanket for the cold nights. It got colder, she remembered from Lothering, from before everything had started to crack. She raised her eyes to the wall beside the door…a trembling finger touched  _ his  _ staff, the one she’d given him, the light in his eyes as he felt its smooth wood, the delicate metalwork near the top…the light in his eyes, the smile, the way he’d kissed her, as though nothing else mattered, but to  _ Them... _ no, even to  _ him,  _ something else had always mattered.

She tried to step away, tried to run as the wave grew. She failed. It dragged her under, through the bloody fragments of the woman she thought she’d been, that she might have been, once. The friendships she’d turned away from, because he was all she had needed. The joy in her mother’s eyes as she spent more time at the Estate, because _he_ didn’t get worried then…until her mother’s eyes went dark, like everything else, even the healer couldn’t save her from what her daughter failed to stop. And there was Varric, the storyteller trying desperately to give her a different ending; one she didn’t earn, one she didn’t deserve. The ending he wanted was far away from the darkness and emptiness, shadows of what had been swallowing her fragments, the weight of the silence finally smothering the tears, the screams that never made it past her throat, the apologies no one was here to hear. It was a kinder lie than the ones that destroyed her.

Was it the whisper of duty or the hazel eyes that looked up at her in concern when he brought food to the empty echoing house around her? Which eyes...which eyes claimed her now - the hazel eyes that had looked down with simple understanding, or the sea-blue eyes that dragged her under, eyes she had closed forever, that day? She opened her own and closed the gaunt hand in front of her on the other door. She left the room to walk back through hallways draped in sorrow and looked at the letter again. Sabah turned it over and looked for a pen, a quill even, but there hadn’t been ink for years.

She reached for the small knife to sharpen the quill, sliced the wrist furrowed with scars from her broken nails, trying to hold back the pain, waited until there was enough liquid in the bowl.

_‘Varric._ _Don’t blame yourself. Offer the estate to Gamlen and Charade, if they want it. If not, your name’s been on the title ever since…since the Champion’s tale ended. Do with it whatever you wish.’_

She looked at the door but turned away, following the scattered footsteps to the basement, to the other entrance, the one that came out by  _ his  _ clinic, when  _ he  _ could still hear himself well enough to heal. The one she’d funded numbly as Varric found another healer, because it let her hold on to that fragment of the man she’d tried so hard to love. He’d asked her when she still tried. She forced herself to move the other way, away from the clinic entrance, the light shining to let the hurting know they could find comfort, because there was none for her. Sabah slipped out of the city unregarded until she reached the docks and the first ship that was travelling back to Ferelden. Didn’t haggle – what use was money, when it couldn’t stop the death that haunted her – and stepped on, silent again. No one would recognize the hollow creature she’d become, hiding under a dusty cloak, for the Champion she’d tried to be. She’d tried and failed even the City of Chains, doomed it to blood and death.

She sat quietly, the creaking and rocking so different from the echoing weight of stillness she’d lived in for so long. A forlorn hope floated up through the memories and pieces she had given up trying to put back together. Perhaps this time, she could stop the darkness before it swallowed everything whole.

**

Varric looked out over the courtyard. Yes, courtyard. For this letter, he couldn’t be in his usual place. No, he was up where she’d walked so often. It felt...he didn’t know. Right, somehow. A snort. He’d spent too much time in his novels, if he thought where he was would make a damn bit of difference now. And he was just putting it off. He could almost see Aveline’s glare, or worse, Fenris. Not his glare, just...Fenris. Neither of those two had much patience for dilly-dally.

_ ‘Bethany _

_ Yeah, it’s bad. You knew that when I actually used your name. The sun’s shining here, but...shit. You probably already know. Sabah’s...gone.’ _

Varric looked out over Skyhold, the black bunting Josephine had draped above the doors, even into the Herald’s Rest. All adorned with the Amell crest.

_ ‘I spent three years lying to myself, and now I’m doing it to you. So I’ll stop. Sabah’s dead. Finally. And no, she’d never gotten any better. Was never the one who dictated those letters. I hope the sun is shining there, so you still have some brightness when you read this.’ _

He cleared his throat. “Damned dust. That’s what comes from living on a mountain.” If only it was dust. He waved a hand at the surprised sentry walking the battlements. “I’m just old, kid. You do your thing - I can’t even see over the side, so I’m not calling any alarms.” As if he’d even been looking out, rather than in.

_ ‘You know how weird things have gotten. It...it seems like while trying to deal with the Wardens, the Herald, and Hawke, and...well, the folks with them...got sucked into the Fade? You’re a mage, maybe that makes sense. And there was a big demon, and Hawke stayed, to give them time. She was always like that, always giving too much to help other people. At least, that’s what the Herald says, and she’s not lied before. Besides, it’s like her. Like who she was.’ _

He scrubbed his face, as a circle spread on the paper.

_ ‘Anyway. I’m still not going to ask where you are - there are too many rogue Templars out there, even after the Herald brought all the good ones into the Inquisition. Stay safe, Sunshine. Maybe, wherever she’s gone, she can see the sun again, too. See that people cared for her.’ _

He found one of Skyhold’s infestation of messengers near Cullen’s office. “Seal this up, would you, and send it out?” He’d written on the back.  _ Sunshine. Care of Starkhaven Castle.  _ She wasn’t there, had told him she was leaving - but it was the only address he’d had. And the letters got to her eventually.

“Of course, Ser.”

Varric looked at the courtyard again, the surprising growth and blooms in the middle of the damned mountains. “At least you never saw, Sunshine. I don’t think she could have hid it from you if she’d ever returned your letters.” And she wouldn’t have been able to hide it from him, if he’d been willing to see it.  _ Damn it.  _ But he couldn’t go in, couldn’t walk under the Amell crest, the black fabric draping the fortress in mourning for the Champion he’d written. No, he’d mourn the woman he’d called friend from here. Maybe Cullen would have a bottle of something. He’d known her as she really was, too.

**

He hated it, but he put the quill to paper.

_ 'You’ve read the Tale of the Champion. Sabah Hawke, black-haired, saucy beauty who stood up against everyone and was made famous. She would have been anyway, but became more famed than anyone could have predicted. She was gentle and strong and browbeat slavers into repenting and joining the Chantry before breakfast. _

_ It was all lies. Not what happened, but what matters. _

_ Sabah Hawke was just a woman thrown into a pile of shit and trying desperately not to drown. When she went under, none of us could help her - shit, we didn’t even realize in time to toss her a rope. No, we let Blondie swallow up her life and her smiles, and asked for whatever she had left. _

_ Crap. _

_ If that didn’t convince you not to read it, I guess you’re up for the rest. Just...if you get the chance, tell Curly and Sunshine I kept my promise this time.’ _


End file.
